


Step Into The Light

by elzierav



Category: RWBY
Genre: Background White Rose, Ballroom Dancing, Clover Deserved Better, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Resurrection, Ruby learns to dance, Sorry Not Sorry, a lot of fluff, atlas ball, but late, fairwameweek2020, i'm late, so guess this counts as, staff of creation, too many tags, wanted to post this for FGW prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:13:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23636611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elzierav/pseuds/elzierav
Summary: After Salem’s defeat, Atlas tradition demands a ball to celebrate. Qrow is still in the mourning process, but he’s there for his nieces. Until a certain someone appears on a moonlit balcony, and many questions come to mind - but ultimately, few of them matter.
Relationships: Qrow Branwen/Clover Ebi
Comments: 9
Kudos: 70





	Step Into The Light

**Author's Note:**

> This is the Atlas ball fic I promised in my Fair Game week, so here it is. Yes, I’m late to the party, I know, and I don’t care ;) The title is from a Two Steps From Hell song, I love this band and definitely recommend it, both ‘Step Into The Light’ (kinda related to the fic but not really) and their other songs and pieces. 
> 
> Warnings: mention of V7E12, otherwise it’s just really fluffy and soft

There is little to salvage, little to celebrate. 

Yet, little is more than nothing. The whale was destroyed, crushed by the weight of Atlas dropping out of the sky, and that’s more than nothing. Salem ran away, withdrawing her troops with her, and that’s more than nothing. Huntsmen and Huntresses in Atlas and Mantle fought tirelessly to chase away the last hordes of Grimm, and that’s more than nothing. Even more, that’s a sufficient reason to celebrate. 

And to celebrate, Atlas tradition demands a ball. And when all else is lost, when home fell out of the patch sky that was home, the city half-defaced from the brutal impact with the cold hard tundra, tradition is all people have left from home, all people have to start rebuilding home upon. Tradition, a pretense for normalcy, an anchor amidst the storm. 

The dance floor is but a storm - to the untrained eye, at least. Couples gliding on the wooden planks, almost colliding, before drifting away weightlessly in a different direction. Hushed voices, footsteps, garish fabrics and petulant colours blossoming too fast, fading too soon as dancers spin out of view. Fortunately, Qrow’s eyes are far from untrained… not that they take much interest in the party unfolding around them. After all, the scythe-wielding Huntsman is only here for his nieces. 

“I didn’t know you were such a good dancer, Uncle Qrow!” Ruby giggles as he raises an arm, curved like a bird’s wing, to twirl her around, her crimson skirts fluttering briefly as she rotates.

“Dancing is an essential skill for a Huntsman spy, pipsqueak,” he assures, adjusting his hand onto the small of her back to steady her. “The most important conversations between the most powerful people occur by a lavish dance floor. And we get to hear all about them. You’ve still got much to learn. Ready for a new trick?”

And easily, playfully, he lifts her through the air mid-step, above the crowd of dancing heads. 

“Who’s Willow Schnee talking to?” he asks, well aware she can see everyone from her temporary bird’s eye view.

“... General Ironwood. Do you think she’s watching how I’m making a fool out of myself on the dance floor and how I’m not suitable to court her daughter?”

“Nah, they’re probably busy discussing matters of state, like how to rebuild everything and who’ll pay for it.”

Willow’s the main patron behind the lavish ball, so seeing her chat with her most high-ranking guest is no surprise. The General had reluctantly whitelisted Qrow and Ruby’s gaggle of newly minted Huntresses and Huntsmen just so that they could help in the war against Salem. Or rather, Ironwood had been too busy with the whole siege going on to care, and had just signed and waved it off when Winter gave him a form to send stating her sister and her friends’ absolution. For all he’d promised, Qrow hasn’t faced James since, and though he feels profoundly responsible and knows the General must share that feeling, they’ve both been running themselves too ragged fighting the Grimm to have time for that, to have time for guilt, for mourning. The kids have been running themselves ragged too, and Qrow’s glad they can have this reprieve, that they can have some fun now with the ball now… even better if they can pick up some dancing skills along the way.

“When we’re apart, put just enough tension in our hand contact so you can sense me pulling back, to know which direction I’ll take you for the next step and follow more easily,” he advises. “If not, you’ll get carried away by your own speed.”

To demonstrate, he shifts his weight back on his nimble feet and grips her hand just firmly enough to guide her through the next step, without overbearing her. His wrist moves subtly following the accompanying brass section’s rhythm, only relaxing after he pulls his niece back to him, when her small hand rests safely around his shoulder through the stiff fabric of his formal jacket.

“It’s like wielding Crescent Rose really,” he explains, “sometimes you have to guide its weight to change its direction, and sometimes you have to let its momentum guide you and carry you. Like inhaling and exhaling, like breathing, and with enough practice dancing will be as natural as breathing, or as wielding Crescent Rose, you’ll see.”

“Hope so,” she chuckles, stifling her laughter against the silky fabric of his dark garnet waistcoat, embroidered with sparse black feathers. “Can’t wait to be able to dance well enough so that Weiss won’t criticise my every move.”

“Speaking of Snow Angel,” he supplies, tilting her backward so she can get an upside down view on the orchestra. “How’s she doing?”

Ruby’s body falls back in a graceful curve, trusting her uncle’s hand to catch her, to protect her from gravity, only trusting him, utterly trusting him. She’s learning fast, and pride can’t help but flood his mind at that priceless sight. 

“Enjoying Flynt’s improv, it seems. She’ll take the next song, and after that she’ll be free to dance with me.”

“I’m sure your girlfriend will be impressed with your progress,” he says fondly, dragging her back upright swiftly - but not swiftly enough for another careless couple to storm past them, colliding into her. 

The young Huntress lets out a muffled yelp of surprise before bursting into different streams of rose petals. Some of the dancers grumble disapprovingly under their breath at the unusual sight on the dance floor, and Qrow makes sure to shoot them his darkest death glare as his niece reforms securely between his arms. 

“Sorry, kiddo, I’m just tired,” her uncle apologises, blinking warily as he mentally curses his Semblance. “Think I’m gonna take the next dance off, rest, and listen to Weiss. You’ll be alright on your own?”

“Yeah, Penny and Pietro wanted to show me around the gardens. I’ll be fine… what about you?”

Ruby’s got a point, ever perceptive of the reassuring smile on his lips that doesn’t reach his eyes. Qrow’s been busy ever since... since what happened on the tundra at sunrise. He’s been busy fighting alongside others, dancing with others, he’s been too busy moving forward, never having time to pause, to breathe, to be left to his own devices, his own guilt, his own grief over what happened. Over the man he failed to save, failed to trust, failed to love. 

“I… think so,” is all he can reply, giving her a last playful twirl before the music ends in a jubilant cadenza, too bombastic and boisterous for his muted, mourning heart. 

As they exit the dance floor, Qrow gives a customary wave to Ren and Nora standing by the chocolate fountain, loudly chatting with Elm and Vine. Not too far away, Blake and Marrow are offering their song suggestions to the band for Harriet and Yang to have a dance-off, while James awkwardly asks Winter for a dance, both of them trying their best to show a good face. But the heat, the noise, the light is slightly too overwhelming, and the shapeshifter quietly finds his way to a calmer balcony. He’s not exactly surprised at the sight of the couples canoodling, a champagne flute in hand, by the moonlight outside and the dim lighting from whatever remains of city lights. He finally asks for a glass of fruit juice and makes his way through the crowd to find a desert spot near the stage enough so that he can still listen to Weiss singing from outside. 

He’s never heard this song before - her voice is angelic as ever, but the notes are not hesitant any more, nor defiant. Instead, they’re nostalgic like a flock of birds flying to the heavens, toward the memory of all those they’ve lost. But the second verse ends with a modulation, as if a ray of moonlight suddenly befell onto them, as if promising the sun will rise again. Back in the day, watching the sunrise was common for the early bird he was, when it was usual for the tribe to rise with the sun with the morning, when there was nothing more normal. But now, the mere thought of a new dawn tightens his heart, reminds him of so much loss, of russet skies reflecting on stained snow, on soiled snow, on red, too much red… 

The orchestra vibrates in anticipation as the chorus picks up, and a gentle breeze blows through the curtains that frame the balcony, the sheer fabric rustling under the cold moonlight, almost phantomatic. Equally ghostly is the voice from behind his back, prompting a simple question. 

“Mind if I join?”

Qrow promptly spills his juice onto his elaborate waistcoat at the sound of those words. 

Is he hallucinating? He’s sure that the drink didn’t contain any alcohol. Is his mind making it up, unable to let go of the shadows of the past, as a coping mechanism for his grief?

The Huntsman doesn’t need to turn around to see the turquoise eyes, recognisable amongst a million. Doesn’t need to turn around to see the easy smile on that familiar face, on those chiselled features barely creased by age, by smiling. Doesn’t need to turn around to see those broad, squared shoulders, arms crossed formally against the small of a sculptural back… and yet, he’s glad he’s turned around. Shockingly, the man’s exquisite arms are covered in an expensive white shirt, but to make up for it the sleeves are split all the way, not unlike the fashionable Atlesian number Winter was wearing at Beacon. A sea green tie and an emerald waistcoat, adorned with a single gold chain connecting the bottom button to a side pocket, makes aqua eyes stand out in the cold moonlight, and Qrow forgets how to breathe…

He’s forgotten how this sight used to be natural, hopeful, comforting. He’s forgotten he’d hoped to see this man again, at first in denial of what happened on the tundra at dawn, before losing sight of hope. But now he doesn’t want to forget ever again, making sure to drink in the vision before his eyes. 

“Sorry for your jacket,” Clover says, eyes darting down to the juice stain in front of Qrow’s suit. “And for everything else.”

And it’s not enough, it’s nowhere near enough to make up for everything Qrow’s gone through since he thought Clover died. It’s nowhere near enough to make things right, to rewind time as if nothing had ever happened, the trauma, the pain, the nightmares, the guilt, the grief… The shifter’s soul still feels as stained, as unworthy as ever, just as soiled as his jacket is. But at least about the jacket, there’s something Clover can do, not to solve the problem but at least hide it. 

Wrapping a strong arm around Qrow’s shoulder, he pulls the smaller man flush against him, his broad chest concealing the dirty mark as they both fall in step following the slow music. 

“May I have this dance?” the soldier whispers into the shifter’s ear. 

“You’ve already started,” Qrow snorts back softly, too focused on the curves and edges body pressed against him - warm, real, alive, and that’s all that matters now.

There are questions. Too many questions, spinning and colliding in the scythe-wielder’s mind like dancers on a crowded floor. But it can wait, it can all wait as they dance in each other’s arms on the quiet balcony under the gentle moonlight. Because they deserve this calm reprieve, this lucky break, basking in one another’s warmth, slowly, naturally. The crowd seems to have cleared around them as Weiss’s aria grew progressively more virtuose, prompting more people to move inside and watch her performance. Not that it matters in the slightest, because for all his training making Qrow hyper-aware of his surroundings on the dance floor, he doesn’t care about anything other than their dance under the night sky, amidst the starry space.

They’ve never danced together before, but this feels normal, like fighting, like breathing. Every time they part, there is a hesitation lulling them like a gentle tide as the music breathes, and they can only count on the certainty of each other’s grip to pull them back together again, never falling out of orbit. And they step back together again, pulled into their own gravity, rhythmically until they lose track of time and forget how long they’ve been dancing there, alone in the night. 

“How does it feel to be back?” Qrow exhales shakily, burying his face into Clover’s soft shirt. 

“Different,” Clover supplies with a gentle shrug, “but almost the same. I think James brought me back using the Staff mainly so that things and people around him would be the same as before, the same as in simpler times when everything was still normal.”

When everything was still normal, in these times in which they started to trust each other. These times in which Qrow was learning to trust again, to love again, before… before it all happened. James couldn’t erase what happened, but he tried his best to surround himself with the same people as in happier times, to recreate a semblance of the past, of normalcy, of trust, of happiness. Because after they’ve lost so much, memories of the past are the only thing they have left, an anchor amidst the storm. Memories are all they have left, alongside the moonlight, the broken moonlight if they dare step into it. 

Qrow still feels too damaged to deserve a spot in the light, and by the way Clover’s breath hitches ever so slightly when the shifter’s hand moves too close to the middle of his chest, he knows the Operative feels just as scarred, if not more. But maybe it’s okay, just maybe if they’re fortunate, because they can heal together now, let time mend their wounds as they breathe, as they live, as they move forward. Or at least, they can try their luck. 

“I’m still trying to get used to it,” Clover muses, “but I’ve been too busy for that, retrieving things for the General.”

The soldier’s fingers fidget with the golden chain on his waistcoat, revealing the small trinket hidden in the garment like a pocket watch. The blue and gold item, shaped like a miniature lamp, is too familiar to Qrow’s eyes, reminding him of the first time Clover arrested them and picked up the relic from Ruby. Yes, things are back to normal again, and everything will be just fine.

“I still have your pin,” Qrow whispers. “Do you want it back?”

“Maybe you should wear it. Only if you want… I don’t know.”

And they’re still not whole enough yet, still not unbroken enough yet for that, to feel worthy of the good luck, of being alive with all the scars and the grief their actions caused. They don’t know if either of them can wear the badge, when they have the burden and the blame to carry. But they still want to try, not to miss their chance this time, for they may never be another chance, and the song is already growing more triumphant, nearing its end. Who knows what they’ll do next, when the song ends. The next song’s another song, and tomorrow’s another day, and all that matters is right here, right now. 

“What should we do now?” the Operative asks. 

“Whatever feels most normal.”

Understanding glistening in his teal irises, Clover leans in to join their lips together.

And as they kiss under the shattered moonlight, it never felt more natural, just like dancing, like breathing, like everything else. It’s gentle, almost ghostly, a bare press of lips, a barely shared breath. It’s almost too much, yet not enough, just a promise for the future, a promise to try, because they deserve to try. Just a small step toward recovery, a small step on a long, difficult journey, through darkness and cold, toward a distant, different sunrise. But nonetheless, a step into the light. 

And it’s not much, but it’s more than nothing, and it’s a sufficient reason to celebrate.

**Author's Note:**

> While I know how to dance and appear fairly competent while dancing, I am by no means an expert, so forgive me for any inaccuracies and feel free to point them out in the comments. This is my shortest fic yet? I’m pretty surprised honestly, usually everything I write ends up unnecessarily long. Tell me if you like shorter content more... I dunno, just tell me what you think in general in the comments, always love reading them.  
> All the help you can get will be updated soon, probably later this week, I just took a couple of hours off it today so I could write this one. If you want to check that out, you should (shameless plug, sorry not sorry), it's a lot more post V7 recovery stuff and fluffy stuff (and dog cuddles, and some fight scenes, and some plot somewhere eventually).  
> hugs xx


End file.
